


In Tequila Veritas

by lumiere42



Series: And I Ran [3]
Category: WKRP in Cincinnati
Genre: Crimes against fashion, Heavy Drinking, Period-Typical Sexism, Quality Dive Bar, Spectacularly Terrible Music, Substance Abuse, Trauma, WKRP-Sponsored Events Going Wrong
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-16
Updated: 2019-08-16
Packaged: 2020-09-02 11:53:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20275483
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lumiere42/pseuds/lumiere42
Summary: WKRP's stuck with promoting an awful band. Johnny takes Bailey out and finds out something even more awful.





	In Tequila Veritas

At 10:30, Les's news spot is over (all Johnny had caught while rummaging through the recording booth was something about a sheep in Michigan that had been taught how to dance), and Rex Erhart's pre-recorded choices of "listening perk for your daily work" are filtering into the offices.

It's becoming increasingly obvious that there are no more usable tape reels, at least not where they should be, and Erhart's taste in work-time music has just revealed itself to include Donna Summer's braying yodel about the RAAAA-di-OOO. Johnny makes a face at the console and shuffles down the hall to the storeroom. Maybe there are some extras in there.

He's scanning the disorganized shelves when he hears a faint rustling from among the boxes against the far wall. _Damn_. He considers just not looking - _it's like the tree falling in the forest: if no one spots one, do you really have mice?_

Then something moves - the big empty speaker box he racks out in sometimes if he's pulling a double - and he thinks he can guess. The open side is turned to the wall when it wasn't before, and he goes over and crouches down to look.

"That you, Moss? Landlady throw you out, or - "

The pile of blankets inside gives a startled yelp and moves, head and limbs emerging, and -

"Bailey?"

"Johnny? Oh, God." She sits up - as far as she can inside that thing - and starts feeling around for her glasses. He spots them by her knees and hands them to her.

"What are you doing in here?"

She crawls out and gets to her feet, blinking owlishly and smoothing her hair back. "I...came back in last night to...do some promo stuff and see Venus about something, I just - thought a nap - it's morning already?"

"It's after 10:30."

"Oh, _no_."

"Carlson and Andy have been in meetings all morning. I doubt they noticed. I think part of it is they're talking to Herb, so, you know." The look of slight panic on her face doesn't change at that. "Hey, if you wanna go home and change or whatever, I can probably cover for you."

"Can you? If they come out before I'm back? I've got a change of clothes in my car, it shouldn't take that long."

_There are two kinds of people in this world_, he thinks: _those like her who have it together enough to keep spare anything in their cars, and those like you who can't get it_ _together enough to_ have _a car_.

"Sure. I've gotta talk to them anyway."

"Thanks." Just as Bailey opens the storeroom door, she turns back. "Hey, Johnny? This is gonna sound really dumb, but - what day is it?"

"Friday. Payday, actually."

"Oh. Okay." She shakes her head a little and slips out.

*********

After he finally finds the reels (in a slightly cobwebby box that had once held Girl Scout cookies) and checks on Rex's tape (now it's Quarterflash's silvery saxophone scrawling away, maybe Rex is finally developing some taste), he goes to the lobby.

Jennifer's at the desk, reading a magazine. Her back is to the hall, of course, but even so he can see: sharp-looking green dress, perfectly coiffed blond hair, perfect posture, damn near everything perfect as usual, how are people like that even allowed to exist anyway?

He does the same thing he's done on random mornings ever since they've both been working here: tiptoeing up behind her, arms outstretched like a B-movie zombie, making a hideous face.

"Hi, Johnny," Jennifer says sweetly, without looking behind her at all.

He goes back to his usual walk. "How do you always know it's me?"

"I had radar installed when I first moved to Cincinnati. It's very helpful."

"Carlson and them still in there?" He motions at Carlson's office door.

Jennifer checks her watch. "They should be done right about - "

The big office door swings open.

"- now," Jennifer finishes, without looking up.

Johnny does a quick scan for any signs of annoyance in the group that emerges. Carlson and Andy are both looking a bit exasperated, but that's normal for after a meeting around here, and -

"Herb," he can't help saying. "You've ... really outdone yourself with that suit." And he means it: even through his sunglasses, the red and purple checkerboard of that thing is nearly eye-watering.

"It's new." Herb strolls over to stand beside Jennifer, straightening his lapels. "What's your verdict, Jenny-poo?"

Jennifer swivels her chair just enough to look Herb up and down. "Do you want my honest opinion?"

"Always." Herb winks.

"You look like a walking migraine. I'd get my money back from the tailor if I were you. Oh, Mr. Carlson? I think there might be something wrong with the lobby speaker. It made this _hideous_ noise toward the end of Johnny's show, like a tractor vomiting up its drive belt."

_ Crap, that went out over the air,_ Johnny thinks. "Yeah, I wanted to talk to you about that."

"Something the matter with the equipment?" Carlson frowns.

"Actually, that was a - _very_ short and accidental - clip from this band whose concert we're sponsoring."

"Really?" Jennifer stares. "Oh, dear."

"Venus left me a note about checking out the promo singles, and...hey, maybe I'm getting old, but I gotta tell you something seems seriously off."

Andy looks puzzled. "Well, the agent who sent them to us - McElroy - said the Enigmatic Bagels are an 'experimental' rock fusion band. Popular thing in Europe, apparently. We're probably not that used to it."

"I think this might be more than a cultural thing, Travis."

"Admittedly, I didn't get a chance to listen to any of the singles - did you, Mr. Carlson?"

Carlson shakes his head. "Though honestly, I have to trust your judgment about pretty much anything that isn't straight-up Top 40. Sometimes not even all of that."

"Let's take a listen, then."

*********

Once they're all in the DJ booth, Johnny turns Rex's tape down to nothing and makes sure the Bagels tape is in the right slot this time. "Okay, fellas, this one's called 'Boom Your Love,' and - "

The noise that surges out makes Carlson cover his ears.

"Oh, Lord, _that's_ them?" Andy has to raise his voice to be understood. "It sounds like someone throwing chainsaws down an elevator shaft!"

"Wait for the vocals!" Johnny shouts. High, thin screeching (a jaundiced yellow, he thinks) starts emanating from the speakers.

"Turn it off!" Carlson yells, and Johnny thinks he may never have been happier to kill a song.

Carlson cautiously takes his hands off his ears. "That was their _singer_? It sounded like Florence Foster Jenkins fighting with a pile driver."

"Who's Florence Foster Jenkins?" Herb asks.

Andy's face seems to be stuck in wince mode. He leans out the booth door. "_Bailey!_"

"Yeah?" Bailey's voice drifts in from the bullpen. _Good, she got back without anyone noticing,_ Johnny thinks.

"C'mon in here." Andy steps back into the booth. "Fever, I think you and Venus are probably right about something being off."

Bailey appears in the doorway, swathed in a blue sweater Johnny can't remember ever seeing her in before. She still looks really tired, he thinks, but not like she spent the night sleeping in a box, which by the way had just been _weird_ and -

"There might be a problem with the Enigmatic Bagels music," Andy explains. "It's - "

"Horrendous? Yeah, Venus played some of it for me."

"Get McElroy on the phone, will you? Ask him about his definition of 'experimental music,' and if these are the right tapes. And if so, why he set us up with a band that sounds like a bag of cats stuffed in a clothes dryer."

"I'll see what I can do."

"I'd do it myself, but Mr. Carlson and I are booked up today. Oh, by the way, your dad and your cousin are coming in again this afternoon."

"I think this computerized data storage thing might really be a good investment for the station," Carlson explains, as he and Andy exit the booth. "It'd make _your_ job easier as far as the billing goes, how about that?"

Bailey just nods and smiles - her thin, unenthusiastic smile - and steps aside to let them pass.

"Hey, Bailey!" Herb is straightening his lapels again. "Can't chat, got a sales meeting to get to, a meat company in fact. Meeting with meat, huh? Say, what do you think of the new suit?"

"I think sometime you _have_ to let me know who your tailor is, Herb."

Herb winks, gives them a double thumbs-up, and disappears down the hall. Bailey waits till he's out of earshot, then looks at Johnny and mutters, deadpan: "So I know _never_ to go there."

"_That's_ the truth."

"McElroy. Great. He's not that coherent at the best of times, if you can even get him and not his secretary. It'll probably take all day. At least it gives me a reason to not have to chat with Dad and his junior sycophant again."

"I noticed you weren't too thrilled about them showing up."

"Let's just say there are some reasons I moved three hundred miles away. Hey, thanks for covering for me."

"No problem."

She's turning to go when he thinks: _oh, what the hell_. "Bailey? You wanna meet up somewhere once you get off work today?"

"Sure." And there's her real smile - God only knows why offering _his_ company brings it out, but it's nice to see. "Someplace...grungy? You know, _real_."

"Well, Snooky's just had a brand new layer of filth installed. _And_ I think they may have actually bought some unexpired jars of martini olives."

"Sounds perfect. Seven o'clock?"

"Seven it is."

*********

It's early dark, the air cold fog and heavy with impending rain, by the time he gets to Snooky's. Maybe the lousy weather is why there are relatively few people in here for Friday night. Some already fairly drunk kids are playing pool and whooping every time someone actually manages to hit the ball with a cue. A tiny elderly woman's alternately chain-smoking and banging away at one of the pinball machines. On the jukebox, the violent green and purple spikes of Linda Ronstadt declaring someone no good.

Bailey waves from the good table, in the corner opposite the bar. He sits down across from her, and notes she's already ordered: a giant basket of cheese fries, two glasses, and a pitcher of -

"Bloody Marys?"

"Oh, that would be boring." Given the unusual degree of relaxation in her posture and the extra brightness in her eyes, he figures she's had a couple already. "These are Bloody _Marias_. They've got tequila and some jalapeno thing instead."

"Hear, hear." He pours himself one. It's not bad, maybe could do with a little more hot sauce and a non-V8 base. "I would've bought the drinks, y'know."

"I know. But after the last couple days, I thought, just go for it." She pushes the remaining cheese fries toward him. "Guess what happened with the McElroy thing."

"The Enigmatic Bagels found a good exorcist?"

Bailey giggles and refills her glass. "Nope. I kept calling, and somebody finally checked paperwork for me? Turns out, McElroy meant to set us up with an _actual_ experimental fusion band called Chromatic Unstable. But his immediate underling is kind of hard of hearing after a couple of decades in the industry without earplug use. So he set everything - contracts and all - up with the _completely_ wrong band!"

"How the hell did McElroy not notice that? He had to sign off on everything."

Bailey suddenly looks solemn. "Maybe he was too coked up. I asked to talk to him directly once we found out what the problem was? He's in the hospital. He OD'd last night."

"He gonna be okay?"

"They're not sure yet. He definitely won't be in any shape to undo any legal stuff for a while, so unless Mr. Carlson's lawyer can do something - which he probably can't - WKRP is legally obligated to go through with everything."

"Oh, God. A solid month of working that _noise_ into programming? To say nothing of the concert itself."

"I know." Bailey tosses back the last of her glass like it's a straight shot.

"Another reason to hate coke. I really hate coke, you know that? Unless it's the brown fizzy stuff, especially in combination with rum."

"Maybe I should've gotten that."

"Nah. A pitcher of that, and you're running to the bathroom every ten minutes." The Ronstadt rage in the background gives way to the squeaky gold sparkling of that obnoxious Madonna song that sounds like documentation of Jennifer's dating habits. At least the tequila is making him not mind it much.

"And, as if _that_ wasn't enough, Mr. Carlson's gonna make a deal with my father about getting a computer." Bailey stares at her empty glass, then shrugs and refills it. "Which means both Dad and my cousin'll be hanging around into next week. Terrific."

"What's with that, anyhow? I mean, if you wanna say."

"Oh, Dad...never took anything I did that seriously...and then _Carl_ came to live with us his first year of college and everything _he_ did was 100 percent a-okay." Her voice is turning blurry, Johnny thinks, or maybe it's the tequila's effect on his own hearing. "Dad just...kinda assumed...I wasn't even _going_ to college? Shock of _his_ middle age when I got a scholarship to an out-of-state school. 'N then it was 'Honey, maybe not that field, men don't like it if it looks like you're trying to compete with 'em too much, and you know you can't take pressure.'"

"Oh, one of those."

"Yep. An' he keeps bugging me about a boyfriend, 'cause he really just wants me to get married and be a housewife somewhere in Crapurbia. I mean, nothing wrong with that if you _want_ it, but I want different. He's got this really particular kinda guy in mind too, y'know? Like Andy."

Johnny just manages to keep from laughing at that. He concentrates on pouring another drink instead. It's more metallic as the pitcher level lowers. Hopefully Snooky isn't using expired tomato-whatever in this. "He's not trying to match-make, is he? Should we warn Travis?"

"God, I _hope_ not. It'd be so embarrassing."

"Hey, if you really want your dad to knock it off? When he shows up on Monday, we could just...go in there and say we got engaged or something." Bailey starts sputter-laughing at that, and hey, if it makes her laugh he'll go on. "Yeah, I could wear my slobbiest clothes and call you 'Pumpkin' or something nauseating like that - "

"I want him to shut up, Johnny, not keel over dead from shock."

"Well, it helped chase Jennifer's weirdo ex off that time, so, just saying."

Bailey smiles at him, a little woozily. "You're a...really good friend, y'know that?"

"I try. Occasionally I even succeed."

"You do. Er, 'scuse me." She gets up - unsteadily - and heads for the little hall at the back where the restrooms are.

He finishes what's left of the cheese fries (mostly congealed now) and ponders whether to order more drinks. Maybe not. His tolerance isn't what it was, and Bailey's probably already passed the hangover event horizon. _Have I ever seen her drink quite this much before?_ he thinks. _Though, considering -_

That Depeche Mode song about not getting enough is playing, like thin copper wires brushing endlessly together. He sees Bailey headed back this way, passing the pool table, and suddenly taking a sharp right and heading out the side door into the alley.

He gets up and goes after her - if she's as drunk as she seems, wandering out there might not be safe.

The alley smells like garbage and piss, and the mist in the air is just short of being actual drizzle. He sees a shadow crouched down near the trash cans, and then there's the distinctive coughing and spattering sound of vomiting on pavement and he turns away till she's done.

When she reemerges into the little square of sodium-yellow light around the door, her face is tear-streaked and puffy-eyed. She puts a fist to her mouth when she sees him, then stumbles a little.

There are a couple of upturned milk crates beside the door, with cigarette butts scattered around - probably the break spot for Snooky's staff - and he gets an arm around her shoulders and steers her so they can sit down on them. She leans forward, elbows on knees, head in hands.

"'M sorry," she mutters.

"It's all right. You should probably go home and just get some sleep - "

"No!" Bailey stares at him.

"Well, I'm pretty sure Snooky's gonna cut you off - "

"No, I - can't go home, not - not till they leave town, it's why I stayed at the station last night, if they come looking for me - "

_What the hell?_ "Looking for you?"

Bailey takes her glasses off, perches them on her head hairband-style, and starts angrily wiping away tears with her sweater sleeve. "I - didn't - when I moved here I didn't make sure I was unlisted, all they'd have to do is check the damn_ phone book_."

Johnny's suddenly grateful for the protective tequila fuzziness, because something's starting to feel seriously wrong here. "Your family? You - have to be that worried about them knowing where you live?"

She stares at her knees, skirt dirty where she'd been kneeling on pavement. No sounds except traffic on the next street and Depeche Mode thumping away inside the bar.

"See," she finally says, very quiet. "The trick is being a boy. 'Cause when you're a _boy_ your parents _listen_, and they let you go places without your damn _cousin_ chaperoning you, and they believe you when you say he's mean, and they - " Her breathing is ragged now. "And you would've already learned to swim, so he wouldn't be giving you lessons, and if you were a boy he wouldn't be sticking his hands up your suit every chance he gets."

Johnny goes still and cold as the last few words sink into his brain.

Bailey looks over at him, blearily. "But I wasn't a boy."

Then she covers her face, hunched up on the crate, and he has no idea what to say or do, so he just puts an awkward hand on her shoulder. His brain feels like a dog chasing its tail.

"You...think your cousin might show up at your place?" he finally manages. "Is he - you think he's maybe dangerous?"

"He held a knife on me once." Her voice is tiny.

"Holy shit." Because what else exactly can you say to_ that_? "Bailey, I - "

"I don't wanna go back home. If he remembers and - "

"Understood." He really hopes she's taking the worst-scenario possibility of what this scumbag might do, but - "Look, if you want, you can crash at my place and figure out what to do tomorrow."

"You sure?"

"Yeah. Even if they're not looking for you, maybe you shouldn't be alone tonight, after - " Dammit, that almost sounds like a poorly-worded come-on, which is really bad considering what she just told him.

"Okay." Bailey rubs her eyes like a sleepy little kid, then puts her glasses back on.

"I'll get Snooky to call a cab, then." He gets to his feet, with a vague rush of booze-dizziness, and then helps her up.

**Author's Note:**

> Answer to Herb's question: Florence Foster Jenkins (1868-1944) was an alleged soprano widely regarded as possibly the worst singer in opera history.


End file.
